Crush Course
by RosieG.9012
Summary: Inquisitor Aylwen Lavellan and Commander Cullen Rutherford come to terms with their feelings for each other.
1. Aylwen

Just a series of fluffy, stream-of-consciousnessy vignettes detailing my Inquisitor and Cullen's thoughts and feelings as they realize they're falling for each other. Follows game events very closely.

Chapter 1 is from Aylwen's point of view, Chapter 2 is from Cullen's point of view.

* * *

When Aylwen first started flirting with him, she didn't mean it seriously. She was in a new place, new people, lucky to even be alive. She might as well enjoy herself. It wasn't as if anything could come of it. After all, he was human.

o

Nevermind that first time, when he smiled at her and her heart gave a shudder—split second. Nevermind that every time she spoke to him—by the training grounds, in front of the Chantry, in the War Room—she was dizzy, hot, and fumbly, even when it seemed like she kept her composure. Nevermind that she sometimes avoided speaking to him because she was so afraid she'd say something embarrassing ("Do the Templars give up physical temptations?" _Really?_ ). She couldn't stand the idea he'd think less of her.

o

Anyway, she was sure he didn't feel the same. How could he? He was like a prince out of a human tale and she was gawky and thin and red faced. He'd seen things, done things. She'd never done anything. They would be ridiculous together. Not that she was picturing them together.

o

She'd fallen for the wrong person before, and it had been a disaster. She had no intention of making the same mistake again. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. Not from the flirting, but from the feeling. She shouldn't have been so upset when he criticized her decision to recruit the mages. Shouldn't have been so _relieved_ when he told her he didn't have a problem with her being a mage. Definitely shouldn't have been thinking _No no don_ _'t go_ when he left her behind in Haven.

o

By the time he told her about giving up Lyrium, she knew she was losing control. After he told her she couldn't stop thinking about their conversation, couldn't stop worrying about him, couldn't stop seeing his face, "I can endure it." But, if she was losing control, she didn't care anymore. He was in such pain, and so kind, and so sad. And she wanted to hold him, keep him safe. He would probably have laughed if he'd known. As if _she_ could keep _him_ safe. Stupid to even think it.

o

But there were hints. Little, hopeful hints that maybe he felt the same way. It dawned on her slowly. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again." "Not in Kirkwall." And those pauses in their conversations. Those strange, tense moments when they'd run out of things to say and she'd swallow and begin to notice his hands, his eyes, the stubble on his chin, the warmth of his expression. She couldn't be imagining it, could she?

o

And then the chess game in the courtyard. So happy to see him enjoying himself, actually taking a break. Spending time with Dorian, of all people. And then his abrupt, startled rise when he saw her, and him asking her to stay and play. It felt unreal and it was all she could do to focus on the game and put on a decent showing, even if he was clearly a much better player than her. And he was laughing and it was so _nice_ , just spending time with him. Just talking. "We should spend more time together," she said. And his expression. Surprised. Hopeful. "I would like that." His private smile. "You said that." Her heart burst. If she hadn't been lost before, she was now.

o

Keeper Deshanna wasn't one to speak ill of humans. She was the first in the clan to caution others from generalizing. "Humans are not all bad," she would remind them. "We must never forget those who have helped our people." But even she had strong views on the topic of elven-human relationships. "Stay away from human men, D'alen," she used to caution. "They will only use you." She wasn't the only one among the clan to speak of such things. All Aylwen's life she'd heard whispers of what became of those who left to pursue romance with humans. Stories of abandonment, of ostracism, of half-breed children who belonged nowhere. And though clan Lavellan was more liberal than some—they, at least, would allow those who'd left once to return—even they would never accept the children of such unions. Aylwen knew all this. It lingered at the back of her mind, even as each look he gave her made the voice of caution fainter and fainter. Faint, but still there.

o

She had to know so finally she asked him. On the battlements with the sun blazing and the wind cold on her skin. And his words were fumbling, but he moved ever closer. Eyes warm, hands encircling her waist. Her back hit the stone of the ramparts. She didn't even realize she'd moved. His face was inches away, leaning in. Blood roared in her ears.

o

Then, the interruption, the disappointment. It ached in her throat. He was saying something to the scout but she didn't even hear what because this was it. The chance was gone and neither of them would ever be brave enough to have this discussion again. He turned back toward her and she spoke, eyes on the ground. "If you need to—" and then she was in his arms.

o

After the surprise came the sensations—his gloved hands on her face, his breath hot in her mouth and the sting of his stubble. Her imagination couldn't compare. Her hands found his waist and she leaned into him. If she hadn't been holding on she might have fallen.

o

He pulled away. She looked up into his apprehensive, flushed face. Was she out of breath? She wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was… really nice."

o

For a split second, her thoughts went back to Deshanna, to her friends and the rest of the clan. Their faces flashed in front of her, blocking him out. But only for an instant. He was right here, solid and real.

o

Her lips curled into a smile.

" _That_ ," she said, "was what I wanted."

"Oh," he said. He leaned in again. "Good."

As their lips met, as her eyes closed, Aylwen knew that what she said was true. This was exactly what she wanted.


	2. Cullen

Within a week of meeting her, Cullen had grown accustomed to the sound of her boots in the snow and the sight of her half sliding to a stop in front of him. She seemed to have a knack for finding him, no matter where he was or what he was doing.

o

It was odd. In every other situation she was far more composed—reserved, even. It was something that impressed him about her—her seeming unflappability. The fact that she listened carefully and asked shrewd questions. But she behaved differently around him. Or, at least, he thought she did. She avoided his eye, wrung her hands like she was nervous. Occasionally, she fumbled, stumbled over words. It worried him. Was it because he'd been a Templar, and she was a mage? Was she frightened of him?

o

One day, in the course of a fairly ordinary conversation about his work as a Templar, he was shocked when the discussion took a highly personal turn. "Are Templars also expected to give up… physical temptations?" she said. He couldn't answer at first. It took him a moment to even figure out what she was asking, it was so unexpected. He wondered if he might have misheard. He checked her expression and, though her face was bright red, there was a kind of glint in her eyes that made him feel… well, it was unexpected, coming from someone with such an innocent face.

o

Later, he couldn't seem to get the exchange out of his head. He should have been irritated, but instead he kept seeing her flushed face, kept hearing her voice, asking: "Do Templars give up physical temptations?" "Have you?" "Have you?"

o

It didn't mean anything, he told himself. Obviously, she had just been curious, which was perfectly natural. She couldn't have met many Templars, and she was quite young (How old? Twenty? Twenty-two?). A little curiosity was to be expected. There was no reason for him to give the conversation a second thought. No reason at all.

o

It hadn't occurred to him before, but she was quite pretty. There were her eyes—blue, but which seemed to shift from blue to green to gray, depending on the light. Her hair—golden, always braided, with just a few strands escaping to hang down by her ears. Her smiles, rare and unexpected, just revealing her front teeth. Her full, pink lips…

o

Stop thinking about her, he told himself. Stop staring at her during meetings. Stop noticing the sway of her hips as she runs through camp. Stop noticing the way her lips part, just slightly, when she looks at you. Stop waiting for her footsteps. Just stop.

o

He was furious with himself. These thoughts and feelings were _wrong_. Completely inappropriate. She was the Herald. She was a mage. She was too young. He couldn't believe this was happening. Again. He should have learned his lesson by now, grown up and stopped falling for the wrong person, someone he was meant to be protecting and serving. But, no matter how many excuses he made, no matter how much he chastised himself, he couldn't stop the elation he felt whenever he heard her approach.

o

 _I should stay,_ he thought, completely irrationally, when they left her behind in Haven. He kept thinking it as he led the others through the passage and out into the cold. _I should stay._ It was ridiculous. He _couldn_ _'t_ stay. He had a job to do, and so did she. She would be fine. She had to be.

o

When the others returned without her, he knew she was dead. How could she not be? He knew, deep in his soul, that it was because of him. He had failed in his duty as commander, just as he'd failed the citizens and mages of Kirkwall. Just as he'd failed to help his friends in Kinloch Hold. It was his fault. Always, always his fault.

o

But still he led the search parties. Led them even as he pictured her broken on the ground, blue eyes cold. Even as a faint, slim shred of hope tortured him. This hope, without finding her, was worse than any image he could conjure of her death.

o

Another day, another fruitless search. He was about to give the order to turn back when he heard it. Panting breath. Slow, laborious crunch of boots in the snow. For the first time in days his heart leapt. He raised his lantern. The light caught a small, shivering figure.

o

"She's here!" he called. His voice didn't sound like his own. She looked up, arms across her chest. Met his eyes blearily. Her lips moved. Then, she crumpled.

o

Without even thinking about it he rushed forward, scooped her up before she fell face first in the snow. He didn't remember running. All he registered was the feel of her in his arms as he carried her—head resting against his chest, body limp and light, far too cold. He looked down and there was a blue tinge to her lips, snow in her hair and eyelashes. But he could _see_ her breath rising cloudy in the cold. She was alive. He didn't think he'd ever see a more beautiful sight than her breath in the frozen air.

o

He knew they could never be together. Even if she felt the same way (Did she? "I'm relieved that you—that so many made it out.") she wouldn't once she knew more about him. Once she knew about his failures and his weakness. She knew about the Lyrium (even thinking of it made his head ache) but not how much the lack of it affected him. But, even if they couldn't be together, he could endure it. He could endure anything for her. He would work harder, become better. As long as she was safe and alive, that was all he needed.

o

But she wouldn't leave him alone. As soon as his new office was set up, she was there every day. Sometimes with Inquisition business, sometimes not. Always with an excuse. "The best path to the tavern is through your office. I hope you don't mind." "I was just on my way to the battlements. Needed some fresh air." "I couldn't help noticing your bookshelf the other day. May I take a look?" Soon, with his permission, she was borrowing books off his shelf, interrupting whatever he was doing to discuss them or ask a question.

o

A part of him wanted to protest. She needed to stop. She needed to forget him and let him work. But it was a very small part. Difficult to pay attention to when she wore that new—really, much too tight—blue tunic that brought out her eyes. Or when her scent lingered in his office. Or when all he could think about was wrapping his hands around that thin waist and pulling her toward him, pressing his mouth to those pink lips— He really needed to get back to work.

o

"We should spend more time together," she said during their chess game. He thought maybe he'd imagined it, or not heard correctly. But when he looked at her, her eyes were bright, her face so eager and hopeful. He _hadn_ _'t_ imagined it. "You said that."

o

 _Just kiss her,_ he thought. All semblance of trying to ignore the feelings was gone now. He was lost, completely, utterly lost. He thought about it constantly, every time he saw her. _Kiss her. She_ _'s right there. Just lean in and kiss her._ But he couldn't do it. He still worried. It was wrong, or he was wrong. Maybe she didn't want to kiss him. How could he be sure? "Oh, for goodness sake," Dorian said one day when he caught Cullen looking at her. "You think too much. Don't think. Act." Cullen muttered in reply something about not knowing what he was talking about, and about not being ridiculous.

o

"I thought we could talk. Alone."

He started so badly when she said it that he almost couldn't speak. Alone? Why alone? But she was right there. So close, so dear. There was no question what he would do. He would follow her anywhere.

o

He was a mess. Fumbling, stuttering, talking about the _weather_ , for goodness sake. There was sweat on the back of his neck and his heart beat so quickly he thought he might pass out. But she looked at him with clear eyes, unflinching. "Cullen, I care for you." It was too much to ask. It wasn't possible. He moved closer, and she matched him step for step, drawing him in as he closed his hands around her waist, as he leaned in—

o

"Commander."

No. No. Not now. Blood roared in his ears as he rounded on the scout, hardly aware of what he barked out. Only aware, somehow, of her behind him, still leaning against the stone rampart. The scout retreated, but Cullen's heart still raced. He had to do something. Do something, or the chance would be gone. _Don_ _'t think. Act._

 _o_

"If you need to—"

He grabbed her before he could talk himself out of it. His lips found hers. Finally, finally. Her soft mouth, his hands tracing her face. Her body melting into his, her arms around his waist. This was bliss. Then, he realized what he'd done and pulled away.

o

"I'm sorry."

He looked down at her, checking her reaction. He smiled, uncertain.

"That was… really nice."

o

She just looked at him. He couldn't read her expression—surprise? confusion? But, then, her lips curled into a smile.

" _That_ ," she said, "was what I wanted."

His heart burst with warmth. "Oh," he said. He leaned in again. "Good."

He closed his eyes. Their lips met a second time. For the first time in months, perhaps years, he felt no anxiety or fear at all.

* * *

For the record, Aylwen is 23.

Also for the record, this pairing has ruined my life and I am so deep in fluff I will never escape. I haven't even beaten this game yet, for goodness sake.


End file.
